No Rest For The Weary
by whitereflections12
Summary: [Winds of the Forelands] oneshot Nothing brings terror and regret quite like helplessness and our dreams often feed on our waking fears...Grina's thoughts and recurring nightmares after Cresanne's rape.  R&R, pleaseand get to writing some WotF fics!


I seriously cannot believe there is not a category for this series. I shouldn't be since it isn't all that popular but I still am. Because I am continually amazed that it ISN'T huge. These books are fantastic, some of my all time favorites.

Anyway, just a oneshot in the thoughts of my favorite character, Grinsa. ::cuddles::

Rated for non-graphic discussion of rape.

I don't own Winds of the Forelands. Nope. (And even though I've bought Weavers of War and this is my third favorite series, I haven't had time to read it yet. Gah! So…this is set after/ish Shapers of Darkness)

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If he feared anything these days, it was sleep. Not because of the Weaver. No matter whether or not he should, he didn't fear the Weaver. Oh he was worried, concerned for others. For the damage he might cause. He worried for the future if such a man were to get power. But for himself, he did not fear. Grinsa would not cower before him as so many did.

But the dreams….The ones that came from his own mind, the only thing that he couldn't control. He could control the dreams of any man, but lately he could not control his own.

It was always the same. He would see her, his beautiful Cresanne. First, she would be alone. She was always looking for him, calling his name. He could never call back. It was if his voice had been stolen out of his throat, silenced by spell or by force. The wind blew cold; she grew apprehensive, called louder.

Then he came. The Weaver. His grabbed her wrist first, harsh, so obviously bruising. And the rest…

No matter how he fought, he never gained any ground. He tried to strike the invisible wall keeping him from coming to her aid but he met with only air. An immovable, invisible force. He screamed himself hoarse but heard not even a whisper on the wind. Nothing helped. He knew this but he couldn't stop. Just as he couldn't turn away. That one wasn't physical. He could have shut his eyes, theoretically. He just couldn't.

To her credit, she fought The Weaver. Not that it did her any good, it, in fact, probably caused her more pain. But she fought with all the strength he knew she possessed. She begged for help. This, he knew, was only his dream. Cresanne didn't beg. Cresanne never begged. But the demon inside that tortured him with these visions had one purpose only: to make him feel even more helpless. To make him see just what he couldn't prevent.

He had failed to care for the woman he loved, failed to protect her when she needed him. He had failed her. Though he was a Weaver, he wasn't good enough.

Tears stung his eyes until they felt like acid, burning at the corners and across his skin. The Weaver always left her, battered and bleeding, crying. He wanted to go to her, wrap her in his arms and tell her some beautiful lie about how it was all alright, how he would make everything better. He knew the truth. This was something he couldn't make better. He could only have prevented it. Now that it was done… It was done. Healing would take time.

A part of him wanted so badly to kiss her. She was his, _his_. She had chosen to be his. No one else had any right. He knew the memories would plague her, as they did him. Worse. Maybe, maybe he could make her forget. Maybe. He could, at least, try.

The first and only sound came at the end. This, perhaps, was the worst part. Softly at first, then with growing intensity, he could hear Bryntelle crying.

He always woke then, in a cold sweat, feeling as if he'd run a thousand miles. Panting, he would sit up, rest his head in his hands and vow that the devil himself had found a way to weave into his dreams.

He never wanted to wake Tavis. The boy's questions would have been sincere but unwanted. Tavis would carry guilt. He would claim if duty had not dragged Grinsa away, he would have been there. Grinsa couldn't have that. This was something he had to carry alone. As he did so many worries these days.

His mind was jumbled, though it almost always settled on her, on the last time he had spoken with her. Recently, she was different. Of course. How could she not be. But the fear… He was almost certain she tensed when he touched her, and once he had seen her turn a fraction away from his hand. Their parting kisses were devoid of their old warmth. Or was he just imagining things? Fear can do terrible things to the mind, even more terrible things to a relationship. That he knew. All the same, he couldn't quell it and fact and fiction danced round and round in his head until the light of dawn stole over the horizon.

Daylight would start the others all over again, the war. The Weaver. The world. They were nothing to his inner demons, nothing to the conflict in his soul.

In quiet desperation, the only prayer to leave his lips was one for rest. Soon. Together.

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Meh, it could have been better I think. All the same, I like it well enough to post it. I really do adore Grinsa, and I love doing angst with the poor guy even though I love for him to be happy. lol

Reviews are my friends.


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